Sherlock Holmes Takes a Vacation
by Erica Bailey
Summary: Working title. Best I could come up with at the moment. Set in present times. Michele Hansen was just hoping to catch a photograph of a lakeside sunset, but found something, or rather someone, else on the beach.
1. Prologue and Chapter 1

Forward: This is my first try at fanfiction. I had the original concept a looong time ago (try around age 10) and was just recently inspired to make a story of it. Try to be constructive in reviews if you can. Or don't. But if you must tell me this piece sucks horribly, at least say _why._ Oh, and if you want this to become a romance, tell me. I haven't decided yet.  
  
Much thanks go to Wakizashi, for inspiring me to pull this idea out of my archives. After reading "Hinc Illae Lacrimae," I couldn't resist showing Holmes around my hometown.  
  
Well then, the usual disclaimer...I don't own any of it, and I'll put the Great Detective back where he belongs as soon as I'm finished with him. And now...onward!  
  
****

Prologue

Sherlock Holmes awoke with a violent start. Gasping for air, he looked about himself, attempting to discern exactly where he was, to no avail. He found himself surrounded by darkness, with pinholes of light here and there. _A chest of some sort_, he thought, and began piecing together his memory of the events which occurred directly before he'd fallen aslumber. _It was in an abandoned warehouse...confrontation with his perpetrator and a gang of accomplices... _Holmes felt a stab of pain shoot through his neck into his head. _Resulting in a blow to the upper spine. _Cautiously, he tested himself for paralysis, moving arms, legs, and fingers separately. _No permanent damage. _Realizing that the band he'd tried to overtake had knocked him out and locked him into the trunk, Holmes moved on to finding a way out of the small prison. 

The wood was too heavy and thick to simply tear apart with a swift kick. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a straightpin. One thing Sherlock Holmes had learned in his many adventures was to always come prepared. He quickly set to work at picking the lock, and in minutes, the lid sprung open revealing surroundings much different to the warehouse he had expected. 

Planks of wood rose up around him on all sides, and from the musty smell and gentle rocking, he realized he was onboard a ship, a small one at that. Probably held a crew of no more than five. He sniffed the air again. No smell of salt. He was obviously on a lake or river. Now to discover exactly which body of water this was, and in which course the vessel was heading. Brushing himself off, Holmes rose out of the trunk and pulled down the trapdoor leading to the upper deck. 

There wasn't a soul onboard, save the detective himself. Bewildered, Holmes climbed the stairs and looked about, fighting back a wave of nausea at the sight that greeted his eyes. Directly in front of him, the captain lay tied to the wheel, in a state of advanced decomposition. _The work of a plague, no doubt, _he reasoned. 

Holmes moved to the wheel, careful to avoid contact with the corpse. The course was set for somewhere along the west bank of the lower Michigan peninsula. _Michigan!_ Holmes thought. _How the blazes did this tiny vessel make it clear across the Atlantic!? _But there was no time to ponder the matter over. The sky was changing, and fast. 

****

Chapter 1

__

Of course, I thought, huddling under an overhang of cement_. As soon as I get here, it decides to rain. _And not just rain. It was a full blown thunderstorm. We have a saying here in Michigan. "If you don't like the weather, wait 5 minutes." Today it looked like that was going to hold true. 

It was a beautiful Friday afternoon. I'd just gotten out of work, and on a whim, I had driven out to Pier Cove to take some photos and just be around the smell of the sea. I loved the smell of the water and the sound of the waves. And after nearly 26 years of living in West Michigan, I still never got around to getting a decent photo of a lake sunset. I'd photographed nearly everything else in my home city of Grand Rapids, though. Someone told me, when I was little, that I had a "photographer's eye." I took it as the greatest compliment I'd ever received and never left home without a camera since. But, it looked like today I wasn't going to get that sunset shot after all. _Still...might be some nice lightening in the storm. _I reached into my camerabag and grabbed a roll of 25 speed film to load into my SLR.

Just then, something caught my eye. Far off in the distance, I saw something crawling onto the beach, and gave a startled cry when I recognized its human form. I threw the camera over my shoulder and broke into a run. 

As I neared the figure, I saw that it was a man, perhaps a few years older than me, and...oddly dressed, to say the least. I held out a hand to help him onto the shore. 

"Are you ok?" I shouted over the crashing waves.

"My vessel was lost in the storm, and I believe I've a head injury," he replied in an thick, yet refined English accent. _Poor guy, _I thought. _Goes on vacation and gets shipwrecked. _I lifted him onto my shoulders and acted as a crutch for him as we made our way slowly to the park entrance. My car was parked not far away, as the beach was deserted when I arrived. I guess the locals just have some sort of sixth sense as to what the weather is up to.

When we reached my vehicle, a 94 Chevy Cavalier, the man let his arm drop from my shoulders and leaned against the car, staring in awe. "What sort of machine is this?" he asked in disbelief.

I laughed. "Yeah. Over here we have the steering wheel on the opposite side. Weird, huh?" I fumbled for the keys with my now frozen hands, but managed to unlock the doors. "Here, why don't you rest here for a bit, and then I can take you to wherever you're staying." I popped the trunk. "I think I have a blanket back here somewhere..." 

The man continued to stare at the car, running his fingers over its exterior, with a look of intent concentration on his face. I laughed inwardly and wondered just how different British cars were to domestic vehicles. Opening the door for him, I said "Here. Get in before you get more soaked than you already are." I handed him the blanket. "Figured you were probably freezing." I shut up his door and ran around for my own. He wasn't the only one who was now chilled to the bone! I started the car, which brought an astonished gasp from my friend. _What, our engines run different, too?! _

He wrapped the cloth around him and laid his head back, then snapped it up again, which I'm sure he regretted doing by the wince of pain that crossed his face. "Forgive me," he apologized. "Here you are offering me your every kindness and I've yet to utter the slightest gratitude."

I smiled. "Hey, it's no big thing. Take it easy there," I cautioned. "You don't want to make any sudden moves if you have a concussion or something." I paused, then held out a hand. "Michele Hansen, by the way."

He took my hand and gave it gentle squeeze. "A pleasure, my lady. Sherlock Holmes."

I lost it at that instant. 

"Oh my God!" I managed through bursts of laughter. "What, are you with some murder mystery...boat cruise or something?"

A look of bewilderment crossed my companion's face. "I beg your pardon?"

"You really think you're Sherlock Holmes!" I shrieked. "This is too much..."

The man's expression deepened. "I assure you, madam, I am every bit as confused about this situation as you...appear to be." He paused. "And I am, indeed, who I claim to be. Why does that seem so unbelievable to you?"

"Oh, I don't know..." I replied, calming down. Slightly. "Maybe because Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character! And if he was real, he'd be close to a hundred and fifty about now!"

My friend's expression turned to one of shocked terror. "One hundred and fifty..." he murmured. "But I'm barely thirty." He looked up into my eyes in such a convincing way that I'd swear his emotion was genuine if I didn't know that his story was impossible. "What, pray, is today's date?"

"August 9. 2002."

"That means I would have traveled forward in time more than a hundred years! But I suppose it would explain this." He gestured to his surroundings.

I sighed inwardly. My dear Sherlock wasn't going to drop this story anytime soon. I decided to humor him. "Well, now that we've determined that you're not only on vacation from your home city, but your time period as well, where do you suggest we go?" The rain was letting up, and I was getting tired of sitting in the parking lot. "Do you have a hotel or something I can take you to?"

Holmes looked off into the distance as if in deep thought. Feeling my gaze on him, apparently, he sprang back to life. "Hotel? No" He paused. "My dear, the very storm that left you huddled below that ledge, caused my vessel to capsize."

_Of course. And if he keeps up the Sherlock Holmes bit, the only room he'll get is in the loony bin_. "Well..." I started. "Would you mind hanging at my place for the night? At least until we can figure out a place for you to stay."

A smile crossed my companion's face. "Madame, if I understand you correctly, I believe I would be quite grateful to your offer."

"Great." I smiled back and drove out of the parking place. "And you can call me 'Chele' if you want. Everyone does." Sherlock nodded in response. "Shit!" I remembered, grabbing my cellphone. "You're soaked, and I have absolutely nothing for you to change into." I dialed my best friend, Tim. 

Holmes stared at the wireless phone in my hands. "What is that contraption?" he asked.

I shushed him as Tim picked up. "Hey babes, what's up?" I said into the receiver.

A confused "I fail to understand your question" came from beside me, and I waved my hands in a frantic "shut up" motion at Holmes. "Hey, Tim..." I continued the conversation. "You'll never believe this. I was out for a walk at the beach, and I ran into this guy coming out of the lake. Shipwrecked or something. Actually, he's sitting in my car right now. No. I don't think he's dangerous. A bit deluded, maybe. You'll see. Oh! Yeah....I was wondering if you could donate a set of clothes to the cause. All I've got is girly stuff. I dunno...sweats or something. He's absolutely drenched. Thanks, Tim. I'll see you there in about half an hour? Ok. Bye." I ended the call and turned to Holmes. "That is a cellphone. You know...pick up. Dial. Talk."

Holmes threw a withering glance at me. "Yes. A means of communication. I gathered." His tone told me I was trying his patience.

"Sorry," I muttered. A thought struck me. "Hey! You have got to check this out!" I reached to the backseat and grabbed my CD case. "Remember records?" I asked.

"Yes," replied Holmes. "I had quite a large collection of them, from the cases I worked." He paused. "I don't see their usefulness in this situation."

I stopped for a second, confused. "No...I mean, like, phonographs. Music records."

"Phonographs?" Holmes asked.

"Damn!" I exclaimed. "So you couldn't play any music at all? Talk about deprivation." Before Holmes could reply, I popped the disc in the player, and the sweet sound of Metallica filled the vehicle. Holmes' hands shot up to his ears.

"What on Earth is that racket?" he cried over "Enter Sandman". I glared at him and pushed the "off" button.

"No appreciation for the classics," I said under my breath.


	2. Chapter 2

****

Chapter 2

Tim greeted us at the door of my apartment. He'd been there for a few minutes and let himself in. Beside me, Sherlock Holmes stepped cautiously into the studio flat, his attention seeming to be everywhere at once. _He sure is keeping the "time traveller" act up good, _I thought as I took the handful of clothes from Tim. I gave Holmes a weak smile.

"Sorry, it's not much," I apologized. "Go ahead and lay down on the bed behind that curtain. Here's something dry for you to change into." I handed him the bundle, a pair of sweats and a Pantera T-shirt. I stifled a giggle at the thought of the great detective dressed in such a way. He accepted them with a nod, and came back out into the open moments later.

"I'm terribly sorry," Holmes started, "But I've no time for sleep when I'm caught in such a fascinating case."

"Case?" asked Tim. "Are you a detective or something?"

Holmes smiled extended a hand. "Consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, sir. A pleasure to meet you."

Tim ignored the hand, doubling over in laughter. After a moment he looked at me and said, "You were right, Chele. This one is definitely a nutjob."

I quirked a brow to say "I told you" while Holmes' congenial manner turned to one of infuriation. 

"Can we please desist with this madness?" he barked. "I _am_ Sherlock Holmes! Whether you choose to believe that fact is inconsequential. But I refuse to be ridiculed any further upon the mention of my name!"

I looked at Tim. What more could I say to the guy? His story was impossible, and he was clearly suffering some trauma from the injury. Schizophrenia. Something. Tim, on the other hand, clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing around the room.

"Sherlock Holmes" he said, "had an uncanny ability to tell qualities about a person from objects that they own." He picked up my SLR from where I'd dropped it at the door. "What can you tell about the owner of this camera?"

Holmes took the camera into his hands and studied it intently, trying buttons, focusing and unfocusing the lens, even setting off the flash, which caused him to jump, startled. After several minutes, he finally looked up. "The owner of this camera," he started, "is a somewhat careless female with a penchant for having her nails long, yet her nervousness renders them to the short state they are in now. She is obsessed with photography, yet is unschooled in the art, and often takes undesirable photographs. Also, she has recently had a small, active kitten." He handed the camera gently to me. "As this is one of your most cherished possessions, I don't want to accidentally cause it harm." I took the SLR from him, stunned speechless.

"How did you do that?" I managed. 

The detective smiled. "It was all correct, then? I admit, as I am unfamiliar with the particular device, I couldn't gather much out of it. I deduced you were careless due to the scratches along the entire body. Obviously from being thrown about. This comes as surprise, since you rid yourself of the cat that scratched the surface of the lens, meaning this object holds great significance to you."

"And the nails?" I asked.

"A trace of nailpolish on the side of the camera."

Seemed simple enough, I decided. "What about the messed up pictures?" Honestly, I did throw out a great deal more than I kept.

"A smudge on the lens. From being brushed by a finger on the shooting hand."

By this time, Tim had stopped pacing and collapsed into an armchar. He looked up at Holmes, then myself in awe. "That does it," he stated. "I'm convinced."

My eyes narrowed. "Timothy....did you put him up to this? This is all some trick, isn't it?" I wasn't about to be fooled so easily. I crossed my arms smugly across my chest.

"Chele," Tim said in an exasperated tone. "Name one Sherlock Holmes mystery."

I thought for a minute. I really never was much of a fan of Doyle. "Um...that Baker Street Hound one?"

This brought a hearty laugh from both my guests. "It was the _Baskerville_ Hound," Said Holmes. "221B Baker Street is my address."

"Are you sure? You didn't have a dog or anything?" More laughter.

"You see," Tim said, "the point I'm trying to make is that you're not even a fan of the stories. Why would I make a joke like that? And how was I supposed to know that you went down to the beach today?"

I thought it over for a moment. "Makes sense, I guess." Then it dawned on me. "So that means...." My eyes grew wide. "You're Sherlock Holmes!"

"As I stated nearly two hours ago," he replied.


	3. Chapter 3

****

Chapter 3

I laid my head back onto the futon sofa as Sherlock Holmes continued to pace around the room. Tim had left long ago. I was tired. Why the hell wasn't Holmes tired? He'd asked me for a pain reliever. Cocaine, specifically. I told him it was illegal in this world of beurocratic buzzkillers, and produced a bottle of Tylenol. _Should have given him Tylenol PM, _I thought as his circling grew more and more rapid. 

"Really, Sherlock," I began for probably the hundredth time, "With all that's happened, you _need _ rest. What are you accomplishing with this pacing?"

He stopped and stared at me for a moment, his gray eyes burning holes into my skull. "My dear Chele," he spoke, as if her were addressing a 5 year old, "I am attempting to determine the method in which I arrived here, so that I might make a speedy return to my own time."

"You have to do this tonight?" The look in his face answered the question for me. I sighed. "Look, as long as you're up, I'm up. Can you at least tell me what happened, and what you saw, and maybe we can figure this out together?" Ok, so maybe it was a little arrogant on my part. Thinking I would be of any assistance to the "Great Detective." But really...what else was there to do?

To my suprise, Holmes came over to the sofa and sat next to me. "As eager as I would be to receive any assistance, I'm afraid there's little information you can provide that I'm not already privy to." His eyes lowered, and he let out a little sigh of frustration. "But perhaps you are right. I've found that the best remedy to a block in thought is to divert one's attention elsewhere. So then, what is there to do in this town at four in the morning?"

_SLEEP!!_ I wanted to scream. But I knew where that response would get me. Now I was the one who jumped off the sofa and started pacing about. Grabbing a glass of water and a bottle of Ephedrine pills, I said "Not a whole lot. This is kind of a 'roll up the streets at nine' type of town." I thought for a bit. "You up for a walk?"

"Of course," said Holmes, rising from the sofa and holding his elbow out to me. I yawned and slipped my arm through his, wishing the Mini-Thins would kick in a little quicker. 

* * *

The only place I could think of that was in walking distance was the Grand River. We walked most of the way, arm in arm, in silence. Out of habit, I looked up at the pink sky and sighed. Holmes noticed my wistful attitude, and asked me what was the matter. 

"No stars," I replied. "I spent most of my life out in the country. It still seems weird to look up and see the sky all pink like that." He answered me with a nod and kicked at a stone along the paved path. We continued on in silence for a few minutes after that. I broke away from him and sat on a large rock at the river bank. As he joined me, I noticed a wistful look on his face, too.

I gave him my best reassuring smile. "I'm sure it will all turn out for the best," I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He stared at it for a moment, then took it into his own...and set it into my lap. _Ok...so he's not a physical contact sort of person, _I thought. I turned my gaze out to the river. Or at least, I tried to. The man really was sort of good looking, in a bookwormish sort of way. I dared another glance up at his eyes, and I thought I saw a tear forming. 

Holmes quickly turned his head away, then said in a quiet voice, "I wonder how good old Watson got along in his life?" I understood. If I thought he would welcome a hug, I would have, but instead I kept my distance, drawing my arms close around myself. 

I smiled softly, catching his eyes, which were perfectly dry now. "Try not to think about it," I suggested. "Who knows? If we do find a way for you to get back, maybe he won't miss you at all."

Sherlock caught on instantly, of course. "Yes...if I were to return to the exact point in time from which I vanished, to them there would be no disappearance at all!" He rose, and stood in front of me. "I've been in a race against the clock when in fact, there is no time limit. Thank you again, Miss Chele," he said, holding his hands out to me. "For putting my mind at ease, if only temporarily."

I stared in amazement of his sudden 180. "Um...no prob..." I took his hands and climbed off the rock, and we continued back to my apartment, his arm once again around mine. His step was much lighter, and he chatted incessantly, pointing out various plants as we walked along the sidewalk. _A definite bi-polar case_, I thought. Freud would have had fun with him.

* * * 

Surprisingly enough, Holmes went to bed as soon as we got back to the apartment. But of course, after my dose of Ephedrine, I was wide awake. I decided it was research time. I logged onto the internet and typed "Sherlock Holmes" in the search request box. Scanning through the Holmes/Watson sites (that image just didn't sit right in my head), I finally found what I was looking for: a biography. Hell, it was only fair, right? He probably knew pretty much everything there was to know about me already. I opened up a Word document and made a list of his likes, dislikes, and interests. 

I then promptly deleted the list from my hard drive and closed the browser window. Snooping like that wasn't the way to go about things. If we could know all there is to know about a person before we even meet them, what is the point in even having them around? I switched the computer off and curled up on the couch, trying to get some sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

****

Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes was stil sleeping soundly on my bed when I woke the next morning. I peeked around my bedroom "wall," really a shower curtain that divided the room in two, just to be sure the coast was clear for me to change out of my pajamas.

I was on a mission.

I knew it would take up a lot of the money I was saving to buy a digital SLR, but it was worth it, in my mind. Besides, I had gotten on well enough with my old camera, and wasn't quite ready to make the switch to digital. I threw my clothes on and slipped out the door.

* * *

Holmes was just waking up when I returned. I quickly threw my bundle into a closet, and tried to act like I wasn't up to something. 

I am so horribly readable.

Holmes eyed me suspiciously. "You're up to something, aren't you, Chele?" 

I put on my best innocent face. "Me? No. Just...out...getting groceries."

Holmes crossed his arms and said, "Then where are the groceries?" He smiled a smug grin. 

Damn. He had me. I sighed, and opened the closet door, revealing the gift I'd gotten for him, a violin. "I was reading a little about you last night, and it said you liked to play," I said, handing him the instrument. "It's not a Stradavarius or anything, I just...thought it might make you feel more at home."

I could see he was genuinely surprised as he took the violin from me. "Miss Chele," he half whispered, "This is wonderful. Thank you." He gave me a warm smile.

I smiled back. "You're welcome. Play for me?"

"Most certainly." He took the instrument out of its case and plucked at the strings. "Good tone," he murmured. Then, taking the bow, he brought it up to his chin and produced a beautiful, haunting melody. It was entirely unfamiliar to me, but I was never much into classical music. I just layed back onto my futon-bed and enjoyed the concert.

"That was wonderful," I said when he'd finished. "Who wrote it?"

"Oh, no one," he answered. "I have a habit of playing random chords and melodies that come to mind. Although I am familiar with many classical pieces. Would you like to hear something in particular?"

My eyes grew wide. "That was just improv? That was beautiful! You should play professionaly."

He smiled. "I'm afraid I have already chosen an alternate career path." Then his expression darkened. "Or at least, I _had_ a carrer. I don't suppose the police force will be calling upon the assistance of a fictional character anytime soon. If you will excuse me." He rose and went back into the "bedroom." After a few minutes, I heard more violin music, but it was an incredibly sad tune. Downcast, I sunk further into the sofa, my hand grazing the carpet. My eyes laid upon the television remote and I grabbed it to turn the TV on. Anything to take my mind off Holmes and his horribly depressing song.

"Police now have one suspect wanted for questioning," reported the newswoman on the screen. "5 year old Jesse Meyers was reported missing at 7:00 am this morning from her Georgetown home." The camera panned to a quaint little house, just like every other house on the street. Except this was the house I'd driven to a hundred times, where my sister and her husband and child lived. I missed the rest of the newscast.

"Sherlock!" I screamed, my body frozen in shock. I heard a sharp mischord and a thud as the detective rushed to where I was sitting. 

Turning my head to face his, he asked "Chele! What is it? Are you hurt?"

I could hardly breathe, but somehow, I managed to say, "My sister...Jesse...she's missing..."

"Your sister is missing?" he asked.

I forced myself to calm down. "No. Her daughter. My niece." I fell against him, sobbing. "Oh God, what if she's dead already? What if they can't find her? Poor little Jesse..." Then it dawned on me. I was crying on the shoulder of none other than Sherlock F-ing Holmes! I looked up at him, full of hope. "Do you...do you think you could check it out? Could you find her?"

Holmes' expression turned to one of complete self confindence. "Miss Chele, I assure you, I will put no less than my best efforts to the case. Come," he beckoned, taking my hand, "we haven't a moment to spare."

I jumped off the couch and hurried out the door, stopping only briefly to slip on my shoes. Holmes was standing beside me when I got to the car, my keys dangling in his hand. I gave him a sheepish grin and snatched them away.

I nearly broke the sound barrier on the way there.


	5. Chapter 5

****

Chapter 5

Gabrielle's driveway was filled with media trucks when I pulled up to the curb. It looked like they were packing up, but as soon as they saw Holmes and I, several cameramen ran over to us, hoping to get a comment or interview. They got neither, as I pushed them aside and ran into my sister's home. 

Gabrielle and her husband were sitting on the couch in her living room, and I rushed beside her, throwing my arms around my twin. She looked up at me, her emerald eyes filled with fear and loss. "I....I tried to call you," she stammered. "Your phone was off."

"I know, Gabby. I'm sorry," I cried. "I heard about it on the news." Beside me, Holmes cleared his throat as a reminder of his presence and purpose in the home. "But believe me, things are going to be ok," I reassured my distraught sister. "This is going to be hard to take, but this man is Sherlock Holmes. _The _ Sherlock Holmes," I added for emphasis.

Gabby stared at me for a few moments in disbelief, then finally whispered, "You're not lying. How...?"

"I'll fill you in on the details later," I said, shaking my head. "He wants to investigate the scene-" I broke off. _The scene of the crime. _I couldn't bring myself to say it. "Jesse's room," I finished. "He'll find her. Don't worry."

Gabby nervously rose off the couch and extended a hand to Holmes. "Gabrielle Meyers," she said, "and my husband, Scott." 

Holmes accepted her hand, gently. "Mrs. Meyers," he acknowledged. Scott rose off the couch as well, a little more warily than his wife, and offered a firmer handshake. Gabrielle wiped a tear out of her eye, brushing aside a stray piece of her black curls. 

"Jesse's room is this way," she said, leading the four of us up the stairs, into a sky blue room, obviously designed for a child. Clouds floated past on the walls, just as bright as the day I'd painted them there. A toy chest with a celestial pattern sat against the far right corner of the room, opposite the bed that was pushed up against the far wall. A heap of stuffed animals were piled on the unmade bed, several of them having fallen to the plush carpet. I remembered how Jesse always had to sleep with all of her stuffed animals, so that none of them felt left out. The memory nearly brought me to tears.

Sherlock, on the other hand, moved about the room like a machine, peering closer at this and sniffing that, and poking at a lump of plaster on the floor. On seeing him do this last action, Gabrielle ran over to inspect the white chalky substance more carefully. "Scott," she scolded, "did you wear your work shoes up here?"

"No, of course not. They're downstairs by the door where I took them off." answered her husband.

Holmes glanced at Scott's feet. "He is telling the truth," he said to Gabrielle. "This footprint is far too small to have been made by your husband."

Gabrielle wore a shocked expression. "Then who could have tracked this dry-wall in here?" she wondered. 

"Was your daughter a redhead?" asked Holmes, completely ignoring Gabrielle's question.

"No. She had dark hair like her mother."

Holmes rose and clasped his hands behind his back, peering out the window. "The man you are looking for stands approximately 5 foot, 4 inches in height, speaks in a raspy voice, and has a fiery red crop of hair. By the traces of...dry-wall...left on the floor, I deduce that he is in the same profession as your husband, most likely in close to connection to him, though you may not realize it."

At this, Scott burst out with laughter. "I know who you're describing. I know him very well, in fact." He stopped laughing, and continued in an angry tone, "He's the minister at our church, and he helps me with some of my jobs. He is the kindest man you will know, and wouldn't hurt a fly."

My eyes fell to the ground. I had been in error about the whole thing. This had to be some set-up. I don't know how he did it, but somehow, Tim fooled me damn good this time. I focused my eyes on a corner of the room, wishing I could sink into it. Suddenly my eyes caught something. A trace of sky blue on the darker carpet. I ran over to investigate. It was a tiny sliver of the wall!

Sherlock knelt beside me to examine the shaving. Remembering a movie I'd seen, I knew immediately where the wall was carved. I moved the toy chest away from the wall to reveal three tiny crosses. "There is nothing new under the sun," I said, remembering the quote from somewhere. Beside me, Holmes was beaming. "A copycat. From the movie, _Seven. _Which, you will recall, was about a religious fanatic."

"Good work, my dear Chele," said Holmes, rising to face my twin and her husband. "As I've learned many times, you can never entirely know anyone."

Scott was still suspicious. "So now what? You call the cops and tell them a 45 year-old minister abducted my daughter, and the ruffian they're looking for is innocent?"

"Precisely," said Holmes, flippantly. "You attend the Reformed Church on Jefferson, correct?"

"Yes," answered Scott. "Wait a minute...how did you-?"

Holmes clapped his hands together and moved to exit the room. "Wonderful. Now, it is imperative that you do attend the next morning's service, so as to not arouse suspicion. Chele and I will be there as well." He turned to me. "Now, since we've finished here, we have work to do. Come, Chele." He motioned for me to follow him down the stairs, and I complied, hesitating only a little to say goodbye to my sister.

"I'll call you as soon as we get back," I assured her.

"You promised me details!" she yelled down the steps.

"You'll get them!" I replied, and we were again outside the house, the reporters having given up and left the property.

"Where to?" I asked Holmes.

He looked down at the clothes he'd been wearing since the night before. "You don't expect me to enter the _house of God _in this attire, do you?" he said, with some sarcasm. I laughed and pulled out of the driveway.


End file.
